Chapter Twenty
It was the darkest part of the night after the moon disappeared from the sky and the sun had not yet breached the horizon. The slow arc of the lighthouse beacon, sweeping back and forth in the direction of the open ocean, left most of the island in blackness.
Johnny, anxious to get back to the mainland, stood in the frigid air wearing Thomas's borrowed jacket. He still had reservations as he waited at the cliff's edge watching Thomas attach the chains to the dory with only the light of his and Edward's lanterns, motioning for him to climb inside.
"You sure about this?" Johnny asked.
Edward slapped him on the back and laughed. "I've done it a hundred times. See over there?" Edward pointed to a string of lights in the distance. "That's the shore. We row straight for those lights. By the time we get there the sun will almost be up."
Thomas helped Johnny into the boat, hampered by his arm trussed to his side and the still angry wound across his back. Edward gave him time to settle on the narrow bench seat, then climbed into the dory and nodded to Thomas.
Johnny gasped when Thomas hauled up on the chains and the boat rocked a foot off the ground.
"I'll expect to see you again, Johnny," Thomas called as he swung the arm of the hoist out over the water. "And Scott too."
Johnny Madrid Lancer wasn't often frightened. But the next three minutes were the longest of his life. The boat swayed in the mild wind and the chains rattled as Johnny held onto the plank seat with his one good hand. At last he felt the thump of the boat hitting the water and the dory began to bob in the gentle waves.
"You do it a few hundred times, and you get used to it," Edward chuckled as he lowered the oars into the water and started rowing.
"I'll take a bucking horse any day," Johnny said. "I got to admit, that was just about the scariest thing I've ever done."
"That was a piece of cake. You should feel it when you get broadsided by a freak wind. Enough to make a man believe in God if he doesn't already."
In the shadow of the cliffs Johnny couldn't see a thing. The pitch blackness surrounded him. He could hear the steady splash of the oars stroking through the water, the soft steady rhythm of Edward's soft grunts as he rowed away from the island.
Johnny felt a rush of relief when they rowed beyond the cliff's shadow and he could once again see the light from the Lady sending a beacon of warning out into the open sea.
He tried to settle himself in the boat but he couldn't relax, not until he saw Sam in person. For four days he hadn't known if the old doctor was dead or alive. The same people who had lured him into a trap could have targeted Sam too. Johnny would never forgive himself if something hadhappened to him. The not knowing was the worst.
With his back to the harbor Johnny couldn't tell how far they were away from land, and he was too unsure of his precarious balance in the boat to turn around,
Enveloped in the deep blackness he could only listen to the gentle waves as they crossed the harbor. Soon he felt a difference, the boat was bobbing on smaller but more erratic waves as the tide shifted beneath their boat.
Edward expertly turned the boat and Johnny could barely make out an old pier, partly listing into the dark waters. "This is the abandoned side of the docks," Edward whispered, positioning the dory next to the derelict pier and jumping onto the unsteady ramp. "Hobbins is waiting for you at the top of the dock," he said, as he quickly tied the boat's rope to an old cleat on the pier. "He'll take you to Sam." Edward held out his hand and helped Johnny out of the bobbing boat. "Sorry I can't go with you, but it would be hard to explain why I used this old pier. Watch your back and God be with you."
"Thanks for all your help," Johnny said, shaking Edward's hand firmly.
"Be careful, Johnny. If that gunfighter from California was after Heddy, he might still be after you."
"I doubt it," Johnny said as he turned to head up the wooden walkway toward the road above. But Johnny Madrid did pose a threat to him. Not the one Edward worried about. If he was recognized as Madrid then he would be dead or in jail. Neither one appealed to him.
"Johnny," a voice whispered, and a man emerged from the cover of the deep shadows. He held the reins of two horses, their breaths forming puffs of smoke in the cold air. "We don't have much time 'till the sun rises." The man's face remained in shadows, but Johnny could see he wore the same hat and coat as Thomas.
Johnny quickly mounted awkwardly and settled himself in the unusual saddle. This must be what Scott called an English saddle. Hardly enough leather for a man to settle his rear into. Definitely not a working man's saddle.
"Name's Hobbins. Dr. Jenkins is waiting for you. Keep close. We're going the long way so we can enter the grounds from the back"
No more words were said as Hobbins slowly headed along the dock until they were well beyond the oldest part of the harbor.
Johnny's arm and back were protesting as Hobbins led them through the darkness, across the Public Gardens that looked so different at night, to a maze of streets before at last he saw Garrett's mansion silhouetted against the first rays of the sun. A lone candle burned in the window of a room on the first floor.
"That's the signal that it's safe." Hobbins slid off his horse. "We go on foot from here."
Johnny followed him, keeping low to the ground. They reached the back door and Hobbins knocked three times lightly. The door opened just enough for Johnny to slip in and Hobbins disappeared back into the darkness.
"Johnny!" Sam's arm slid around Johnny's good arm.
"Sam…?"
"It's so good to see you, Boy. Before I knew you were safe at the lighthouse I thought I'd never see you again. Come in next to the fire, you're as cold as ice."
Johnny allowed himself to be led through the house and into the den. Garrett's old servant stood back watching the scene, a smile playing at his stoic face.
"I will get hot tea for Mr. Lancer," he announced.
"Could you make that hot coffee, strong and black?"
"Of course, Sir." And Weatherly was gone.
Johnny tried to pull his arm free from Sam's grip. "Would you let go? I'm fine."
"I'll decide that after I've had a look at that arm, and your back."
Johnny couldn't deny that it felt good to be in Sam's expert hands again, but before Johnny could say another word, Sam was unbuttoning his jacket, anger, worry and relief playing across his face.
"What were you thinking, Johnny?" Sam demanded. "Any fool could see that note was a trap."
"I couldn't take the chance it wasn't."
"You could have at least waited until I got back. Do you have any idea how worried I have been about you?"
"I know, Sam. I've been worried about you too." That seemed to take the fire out of Sam.
"Yes, well, let's get that arm back in a cast where it belongs. Then we can talk. I may have some news you don't know about yet."
Johnny looked up expectantly. "What news?"
Weatherly appeared with a tray of coffee cups and a porcelain coffeepot. A stack of biscuits and a small bowl of jam sat to the side.
"I thought you might like something to go with the coffee, Sir." He set the tray down on the coffee table in front of Johnny and began pouring the steaming coffee. "I must apologize, Sir," he began. "I was only following orders when I sent you away that day."
"Orders from a dead man?" Johnny glared up at him.
Weatherly nodded. "I devoted my life to Mr. Garrett. I felt I could be no less devoted to him in death."
"Then why am I here?"
The old servant lowered his head. "I learned things I could no longer ignore. When Sam came to me asking for my help, I had to make a choice."
"Come on, Johnny." Sam handed Johnny a cup of the coffee and a biscuit with jam. "You probably won't feel much like eating when I get done with your arm. Weatherly, do you have the bed set up?"
"Just as you asked. And the water and plaster are waiting for you."
Johnny sipped at the coffee. "Why do I get the feeling that I was better off marooned on that island?"
Scott lifted his head, stiff and sore. Sometime toward early morning he had finally drifted off to sleep in the hard, uncomfortable seat. He remembered watching the train speed through the darkness, streaks of lightning bringing the landscape in startling relief as they traveled through storm after storm. He wondered what the weather would be like when he reached Boston. They would reach New York in the morning, then in another six or seven hours and he would be home. No…not home. There was no home he could call his own now. A temporary place where he could make decisions and arrangements. But not a home.
His thoughts went back to Murdoch, sitting in another car. Had he gotten any more sleep? Most likely not. Scott sighed heavily. He knew he could not leave it as it was. He had to talk with his father before this part of the trip ended.
Deciding what he needed to do, he went in search of a porter.
Murdoch felt a hand gently tap his shoulder.
"Mr. Lancer? Excuse me, Sir."
Murdoch looked up at a porter leaning over him. "I'm sorry to wake you, Sir, but better accommodations have been arranged for you."
"What do you mean?" Murdoch ran his hand down his face, trying to collect his thoughts.
"If you would follow me, Mr. Lancer."Murdoch saw his traveling bag in the porter's hand and followed him down the aisle. Four cars later he entered the Pullman cars and the porter opened a door into a room. Scott was seated at the window of the private cabin.
He nodded."I thought it would be easier to talk in private."
Murdoch lowered his stiff, aching body into the comfortable seat, facing Scott across a small table. Looking out the window he shuddered at the rain. He wondered if he would lose him forever once Scott got back to Boston and took over the reins of his grandfather's business.
.
"Will that be all, Sirs?" the porter asked.
"Coffee and something light for breakfast," Scott ordered. Murdoch had to admit that his son was comfortable with the mantle of authority. He wondered once he got back to Boston and took over the reins of his grandfather's business, if he would lose him forever.
"I would like to start out with some ground rules."
Murdoch nodded, waiting.
"First, I have had enough time to think about everything and I can see how difficult this must have been for you. That is not to say that you couldn't have handled things differently. And don't think that a few words of apology will be enough to make everything alright again. As of now, I have no intention of returning to Lancer. So don't ask me to."
Murdoch sat forward but Scott held up a hand. "Having said that, I am willing to work together to find out who is behind this. I would rather handle it myself, but now that Johnny and Sam are involved, I won't chance their lives because my feelings were hurt."
"Scott." Murdoch looked out the window again, the words he was working so hard to find seemingly elusive. At last he spoke, his voice uncharacteristically soft, almost too soft to be heard over the clatter of the train. "I was wrong, Son. And…" Scott held his objections when his father turned to look back at him. "You are my son. Despite my actions, I always knew that, I was just too much of a coward to find the truth. I have never run away from a fight before, but this one…this one I just couldn't bearto lose. So I did nothing. I won't ask you to forgive me, I don't deserve your forgiveness. But someday, when you feel it'stime, you will always have a place at Lancer. It is your home and your legacy."
Murdoch's words did more to anger Scott than soothe him. His father still didn't understand that a home or a legacy wasn't what he wanted or needed. It was trust, the trust between a father and a son. Until Murdoch understood that, he could not return. For now, though, he would work with the man. Because Johnny did trust him. Scott cleared his throat. "I should have been in Boston today, but I was waylaid by two hired killers in Omaha."
"Scott!"
"I'm alright. I'm only telling you this because it means that someone knew I was on my way to Boston. Only you and a few people at Lancer knew…and Arthur."
"No," Murdoch said emphatically. "I won't believe Arthur had anything to do with this. He's been a friend for too many years."
Scott looked up sharply. How could Murdoch be so adamant about his old friend but so willing to believe his own son was an imposter? He didn't have the time or patience to push for an answer. "Whoever it is has a lot of power to spread such a wide net. I'm afraid Johnny may have run into more than he expected."
"I have the same feeling. Is there anyone you can think of who could be behind this?"
"Grandfather had a lot of enemies. Too many to count. He destroyed a lot of careers, trampled over a lot of lives. But he's dead now. This is too elaborate for revenge. It doesn't make any sense. Masters, my grandfather's groom, hired those two men."
"Why?"
"You don't think I haven't asked myself that question a hundred times? Masters taught me to ride. He was a close friend. I can't believe he would arrange for my death."
"Scott, forgive me, but…" Scott couldn't turn away from his father's eyes. "Are you sure your grandfather is really dead? I mean…"
"I know," Scott said too loudly. "I know. I have thought about that. But I'm sure."
"Why?"
"I've thought about the last letter I received from him. At the time I thought it was harsher than all the rest. But I dismissed it. I attributed it to a business deal gone wrong, or the ramblings of an old man. He accused me of wasting all the money he spent on my education. He said if he had known that I would go crawling back to my father he never would have paid for Harvard. Grandfather would never say that. No matter what I did with my life, my education was important to him. And he never once mentioned Johnny. All the other letters warned me about trusting my half-breed half-brother. That he would use any trick to keep me at Lancer. He hated Johnny, at times, I thought he hated him more than you."
"That's a lot of hate."
"He was right, you know. The times when I would have walked out, gone back to Boston, I didn't because of Johnny."
Murdoch nodded. "I know." Scott watched the play of emotions on Murdoch's face, and he knew that the old man really did understand. Why couldn't he have been more forthcoming when it would have meant something? Murdoch cleared his throat. "So you think the letter was a forgery?"
"I am almost certain of it now. I wish I had not burned it. There was no reason for me to think at the time that it wasn't from Grandfather. Besides, I was too angry with him. I believed every word."
"But why? Who would want me to think you were an imposter?"
"I don't know." Scott banged his hand on the table. "Damn it! I'm tired of this. Someone is playing us like marionettes. They knew you would react just the way you did. That I would get angry and head back to Boston. I bet the only thing they didn't expect was Johnny traveling to Boston. It was totally out of character for him. Which means
he could be in a great deal of trouble."
"You think someone murdered Harlan?"
"It's beginning to look like it."
"What would they gain? Who would take over Garrett Enterprises?"
"Grandfather had business associates, but the business would go to me if Grandfather died."
"And if you were gone too?"
Scott looked at Murdoch, surprised he had not thought of it before. "I guess it would go to you."
"I wouldn't be interested in your grandfather's money or his business," Murdoch said defensively.
"I know that. But what if you were gone too?"
"Would it go to Johnny? Even though he is your half- brother?"
Scott nodded. "It's stated it in my will. If anything happens to you, Johnny would get everything."
"And if Johnny were gone?" Murdoch asked softly.
Scott ran his hand through his hair. "There are no other heirs. It would go through the courts. It could take years to name the beneficiary. No, it doesn't make sense. Even Grandfather's worst enemies would lose if his estate went to the courts."
"Someone wanted you out of the way. That's why you weren't informed about his death. But even if the authorities didn't contact you, what about his house staff? Most of them practically raised you."
Scott's hand froze in midair. "They wouldn't if they thought I was in Europe. Murdoch, that's the only explanation. Somehow they all thought I was in Europe instead of at Lancer."
"That means," Murdoch began carefully, "that your grandfather must have had a hand in this somehow."
"No. There has to be another explanation."
"I'm sorry, Son, you have to face facts. Somehow Harland Garrett was behind at least a part of this conspiracy."
Scott fell silent. If that were true, then even Grandfather's death could be a lie. He turned to look out the window again. His world was unraveling before his eyes.